


Tit-Bit

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Forced Feminization, M/M, Nipple Play, Sado-Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst of it, Eames discovers, isn't the sheer humiliation of knowing he's wearing a goddamned bra.</p><p>No, that would be the itching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tit-Bit

**Author's Note:**

> Speed-beta'd by anatsuno. For the kink_bingo nipple play square.

In spite of whatever Arthur might say, the situation wasn't in the least Eames' fault. It was the weather, and their bloody co-workers. Eames was only reacting to circumstances.

Admittedly, it’s true that these circumstances happened to _include_ Arthur, but this doesn't change the following basic facts:

1) Sydney is bloody hot this time of year, bordering on unbearable; and  
2) Their architect insists on keeping the office just above freezing temperature.

Eames is quite grateful to the wonder that is modern air-conditioning, truly he is, but he thinks there's something to be said for natural adjustment to the local climes. For one thing, it would mean he doesn't have to keep a bloody jacket in his briefcase to guard him from frostbite.

Or, as it happens, should he forget the sodding jacket, he would be able to work in peace without errant parts of his anatomy intruding.

He did try his best to avert the situation. But when he reached for the air conditioner's remote (just to raise the temperature, nothing more, honestly) Claire-the-architect glared at him such daggers that his hand just about wilted where it clutched the remote. His attempts to change the overall weather via prayer and interpretive rain-dance proved similarly useless, except for the hilarity it provoked in their team mates.

So, yes, Eames is sitting in a freezing cold office. And, yes, his nipples are hard as bloody rocks. That's no cause for Claire to snicker at him, or for their chemist to give him a wide-eyed innocent look and ask him whether those are pencil erasers under his shirt, "or are you just happy to see me?"

"Nothing could be farther from the truth," Eames assures him.

Forturnately, the chemist leaves him alone after that. Eames even gets some work done in the half-hour that passes before Arthur bends to whisper into his ear, "Get those things to lie flat before I'll put something sharp through them."

Eames manages to keep his lazy, slouching posture, but he can't help the shudder that passes through him. He knows very well that Arthur means it, as a threat and a promise both.

"Don't see how I could do that," Eames says, in a deliberately casual voice. "Kindly remember that it's not exactly a voluntary response."

Arthur straightens up. He lets a folder he's holding slide from his hand, falling unto Eames' desk with a _thud_. "Make it happen," he says, at normal volume.

Then adds, lower, "Or I will."

~~

So Eames tries, because Arthur did ask and Eames hates to disappoint, and because it's annoying besides.

An old method comes to mind: if a body part persists in doing something undesirable, make it perform the same action harder and it'll subside. Works for pulled muscles and jittery hands – the physical pendant to reverse psychology, Eames thinks.

He sneaks into the bathroom and unbuttons his shirt, staring at his nipples in the mirror. Stiff as Arthur's cock when he's been looking at Eames' mouth, and nearly as reddened. Eames pinches them, forces them to stand up further in hopes that once the silly things will have had a taste of standing tall and proud - so to speak - they'll retreat like normal civilized body parts.

It doesn't bloody work, of course. His nipples stand harder than ever, and even more eager for touch. Eames reflects sourly that it's fitting enough, since reverse psychology never worked that well on his psyche, either. As a wise woman once said, don't use aversion therapy on a masochist; one never knows how that will turn out.

Eames buttons up his shirt and returns to the work area, resigned to face the mockery of his co-workers and the viciousness of whatever punishment Arthur will devise for him. The latter almost makes up for the former.

~~

Arthur doesn't disappoint. His scowl is downright fierce when he sees that Eames' involuntary bodily reactions have failed to achieve what he expected of them. It's like that business with Eames' refractory period in microcosm. He all but drags Eames away by the nape of his neck.

"Meeting," Eames gasps, convincing absolutely no one, but where would they be in a world without polite fiction? Besides, it's only good manners to give your team mates sufficient plausible deniability that they won't have to think of you having kinky sex with their point man.

They go to the upstairs room, where Arthur keeps a cot for when he works late, which is nearly all the time in spite of everything Eames has to say on the subject. Well, nevermind, at least it's handy now that they need it.

Arthur straightens up when he closes the door, a calm that’s almost palpable to Eames settling over him in subtle ripples, like walking into still water.

It's mostly an act. Eames can still spot the minor hitches in Arthur's breath, the almost invisible spots of color in his cheeks. Arthur's excitement isn't obvious, but it's clear enough to Eames, who's made a living of reading men and knows Arthur far too well to be misled.

The signs are plain. Arthur's going to make Eames suffer, and he's going to enjoy every second of it.

Eames' lips curve in an expectant smile. "Well?" he says, angling his body to show himself off, the curves of his pecs, trying to play nonchalant without really putting any effort into it.

Arthur's mouth remains impassive, but Eames can see a smile in the crinkles around his eyes. "Take your shirt off." Arthur's better at controlling his voice than his face, has it at a low, commanding tone that makes Eames flush.

He obeys, not even pausing to run hands over himself seductively. Arthur's good at specific orders. If he wanted Eames to give him a show he'd have said so.

The shirt lands on the bed, and Arthur comes closer, looking at Eames like he's a problem waiting to be solved. Eames thrusts his chest forward, just a little bit, and Arthur's fingers close over his left nipple in a sudden, cruel, twisting pinch.

Eames gasps. Arthur's grasp only tightens. Eames feels himself start to sweat, shivering in the chill of the office and trying to be still against the burn of Arthur's touch.

"Does it hurt?" There's a hunger in Arthur's voice, a dark curiosity.

"Yes," Eames hisses, and Arthur rewards him by twisting just a little harder. Eames shouts, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Arthur slaps him, light and open handed.

"They'll hear you downstairs," he says. It's a warning, except it doesn't work like one because all Eames can think is _they'll know, they'll know everything_ and his hips thrust of their own volition.

Arthur looks amused now. "Do I need to shut you up?" He sounds exasperated, and oddly hopeful.

"You might," Eames says, and lets Arthur push him down to his knees with only a token resistance.

Most irritatingly, Arthur actually seems to settle down some with his cock in Eames' mouth. Eames is spurred to work harder, keep his lips tight and wet and his tongue mobile. Arthur responds by hooking his clever fingers in the hinges of Eames' jaw, forcing it open, and shoving into Eames' throat with a tightly controlled rhythm completely foreign to Eames' own haphazard motions.

Eames is getting into it, though, which makes it that much less pleasant when Arthur pulls away with a grunt and an obscene _pop_.

"Stay where you are." Arthur turns away, but pauses before moving to do whatever he intended. He whisks the blanket off the cot and onto Eames' shoulders. "Okay, _now_ stay where you are."

The floor is hard and cold, but the blanket is warm and smells of Arthur and sleep. Eames turns his cheek into it and breathes, deep and slow, until Arthur returns.

"Close your eyes," he says, and Eames does. He takes the blanket off, but Eames barely has time to shiver before Arthur puts his hands on him, sliding something made of fabric over his chest.

Arthur pulls and snaps it into place, and Eames doesn't need to open his eyes to know he's wearing a bra.

"There," Arthur says, voice thick with arousal. He's not even trying to hide it anymore, and that gets to Eames like nothing else. "Now you won't poke anyone's eye out by mistake."

"Or draw _your_ eye, hm?" Eames says sweetly, and sticks out his arse so Arthur can swat it without straining to reach.

~~

The worst of it, Eames discovers not half an hour later (having been tucked back into his clothes, grumbling, by an imperious Arthur), isn't the sheer humiliation of knowing he's wearing a goddamned bra.

It might have been better if it were a training bra, but no, Arthur got him something with an actual underwire. And padding. In light blue. And _that_ isn't the worst of it, either.

No, that would be the itching.

Eames does his best to sit still during the briefing, not to move while Arthur goes on about the mark's subconscious security. It's important and he's going to need it, but he can't stop thinking about how the bra gathers up the muscles of his chest into something round and almost soft-looking, bumping up the fabric of his shirt. And, yes, of the way the fabric rubs against his skin, _irritating_ , moving every time he breathes, because the bra isn't a perfect fit in spite of Arthur's genius in clothing-related matters.

He brushes an arm against his chest, unobtrusively, to his mind, but Arthur still catches it and glares at him. Eames hastily drops his arm to his side.

Arthur grabs him by the same arm as soon as the briefing finishes, dragging him upstairs again.

"You're like a fucking _adolescent_ ,” Arthur hisses, all but tearing Eames' shirt off, slapping him a few times for good measure.

Eames raises an eyebrow, keeps his voice insolent. “And what would you know about fucking adolescents, hm?”

"Fucking smart-ass,” Arthur shoves his hand into Eames' hair. Eames shouts, joyful, twists against Arthur's punishing grip. Arthur pulls him down ungently until Eames is sprawled over Arthur's bony lap.

Arthur's hand lands hard on his arse, not even attempting any sort of buildup. Eames moans and spreads his legs, tossing his head to feel the delicious tingle in his scalp. “Yes. Darling, yes, _harder_.”

"I'll give you fucking harder,” Arthur growls, and the smacks fall quick and hard and heavy, burning in Eames' skin, from his lower back to just above his knees. One blow lands on his balls, and Eames yowls, high and shameless. It hurts, aching and sharp all at once. His skin feels like it's on fire.

Then Arthur pushes him on his hands and knees, moves away, and when he puts his cool lips on Eames' burning thigh, Eames all but keens.

"What do you want.” Arthur's a little breathless, enough that this comes out as a statement rather than a question.

Eames has a dozen answers, but really they're all variations on a theme. “Hurt me,” he says, almost panting. “My arse, my titties, I don't give a damn, just do it.”

"Titties,” Arthur says, voice suddenly just a tad deeper, and Eames shivers. Struck a chord with that word, did he? “I could tie them up.” Arthur talks smoothly, in a way that makes Eames want to lower his head and just _listen_ , just let it all wash over him. “With rope, make them stand out. Or just pinch them some more. I could do that.”

"Don't tease,” Eames says. “You've got something up your sleeve, haven't you?”

He lets Arthur flip him to lie on his back, wincing when the backs of his thighs hit the covers. Arthur's eyes are dark, his lips wet and shining. Eames strains up, just enough to mouth at them awkwardly. Arthur lets him lick at his mouth for a moment then pushes him back down.

He bows his head, whispering into Eames' ear. “I want you to get them pierced,” he says, voice dark and intimate so close up. “I want needles through your nipples, I want them stiff and hard all the time, and I want something to pull on when you get me angry.”

Eames can't answer to this with anything but “ _Yes_ ,” tossing his head back and arching his body, his aching nipples and his hard cock at Arthur, for him to see, to use, to hurt.

"I'd connect them with a chain,” Arthur says, even-faced but for the heat in his eyes. “And tie that to a wall so you couldn't move without risking tearing. And then I'd fuck you, and you'd stay fucking still for once.”

Contrarily, this makes Eames move. He half-suspects Arthur did it on purpose. Arthur smacks him, open slaps to his stomach, and one, not as gentle as it might have been, to his prick. “See what I mean?” Arthur says. “You can't fucking stay still.”

"I'd like to see you do better with itching powder in your undies,” Eames says. It's getting hard to make the words intelligible.

"Itching powder?” For a moment the blankness dissipates, and Arthur looks amused. Then it's back in full force. “Sure that's what it was? Sure it wasn't just your pain-slut titties begging for me to punish them?”

If Eames had any composure left before, he doesn't anymore. He whimpers and undulates, trying his best to move closer to Arthur, to touch anywhere he can. Arthur holds him down. It would be a blow to his dignity, if Eames had any to begin with.

Arthur starts with pinches, muted through the thick cloth of the bra, making Eames twitch and mutter and finally beg, “More, Arthur, Christ, let me feel it.”

"You asked,” Arthur says, and he pushes the bra down. Eames whines when Arthur's hands leave him, going to detach Arthur's tie-pin.

"Oh, you wouldn't,” Eames says, with mixed dread and appreciation. Arthur smiles. He scratches Eames' areola gently, not even breaking the skin.

Then he fastens it, pushing Eames' nipple between the narrow bluntness of the needle and the cold flat hardness of the pin's underside. Eames hisses, his hands bunching in the blanket to keep from moving.

The other nipple, Arthur bites savagely, teeth marks that will turn blue and purple by tomorrow. Eames arches into it, the sharp graze of teeth a welcome counterpoint to the dull, continuous pain of the tie-pin. His cock rubs against Arthur's thigh on every third stroke or so, but that's all he needs, that's more than he needs.

Eames comes with a muffled shout, soiling his trousers and giving less than a good goddamn about it. Arthur leans up, looking distinctively unimpressed.

"What,” he says, and Eames cracks up in weak laughter. “You think because you came you're going to be let off? Think again, asshole,” and he sinks his teeth into the meat of Eames' chest.

It hurts worse after coming, with Eames sensitized and less motivated now by the prospect of orgasm. It's still well within Eames' ability to bear, and he knows Arthur likes that in a separate way: he adores making Eames beg for pain, but he loves to make Eames suffer and bear it just for Arthur's joy.

"Let me suck you off,” Eames murmurs. “Fuck my throat. Or my arse, whichever you like, darling - _Ah_ ,” the latter at a particularly deep bite. That one's going to turn an impressive shade of purple. Eames can't wait to get a good admiring look at it.

"I want to come all over your chest,” Arthur says, so Eames clumsily helps him push up and arches his back up. Arthur's eyes are hot on him, roaming all over his torso, Arthur's hand quick and sure on his cock.

"Sure you don't want my mouth?” Eames says, and Arthur grins and aims, sending the first spurt of come to land right on Eames' lips. Eames licks his lips and smiles at Arthur's superior marksmanship.

"Gimme a minute,” Arthur says, rough, landing two more spurts on Eames' abused chest. “Okay, now.” Eames tackles him down, swallows Arthur's cock, sucking hard to coax all the last drops out, moving off to lick at Arthur's balls when he starts to squirm.

Arthur pushes him away, and Eames lays his head on Arthur's thighs, eyes closed.

"We should go down,” Arthur says. “Downstairs, I meant. Don't think I can't hear you smirking.”

"Mmm.” In truth, Eames can't muster the energy for a proper smirk. His current expression is really best described as a demented grin.

Arthur rolls him back again (so effortless; Eames so admires his strength), leaning on his elbows over Eames. “Hey,” Arthur says, bending down to steal a quick kiss. Eames mumbles something in reply. Arthur smiles. “That good?”

Instead of answering, Eames clamps his teeth over Arthur's neck, winding his hands around his back. Arthur holds him back just as fiercely.

They keep their mutual stranglehold for a few more minutes before Arthur rolls aside and mutters, “Jesus. I'm going to have to figure out something to do with your nipples. If they keep sticking out like that – do you have any idea...?”

"Some,” Eames says dryly. He rolls on his side. “Another bra might do the trick, actually. Something less scratchy, for preference.”

Arthur blinks. In a moment, his eyes grow hot again. “You'd wear it?” It's only half a question. “You'd put that under your clothes for me?”

Exasperated, Eames rolls him over, nipping at Arthur's chin. “Darling,” he says into Arthur's ear. “Haven't you realized that yet? I would do anything you asked.”

"But,” Arthur says, and Eames waits for more, but it isn't coming.

"Anything,” Eames says firmly, and kisses Arthur for all he's worth.


End file.
